“What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Brief. “Isn’t my verse good?”
“Yes,” said the Idiot. “Just as good as mine, and that being the case it isn’t worth doing. When lawyers can write as good poetry as real poets, it doesn’t pay to be a real poet. I’m going in for something else. I guess I’ll apply for a job as a motorman, and make a name for myself there.”
“Can a motorman make a name for himself?” asked the Doctor.
“Oh yes,” said the Idiot. “Easily. By being civil. A civil motorman would be unique.”
“But he wouldn’t make a fortune,” suggested the Poet.
“Yes he would, too,” said the Idiot. “If he could prove he really was civil, the vaudeville people would pay him a thousand dollars a week and tour the country with him. He’d draw mobs.”
With which the Idiot left the dining-room.
“I think his poems would sell,” smiled Mrs. Pedagog.
“Yes,” said Mr. Pedagog. “Chopped up fine and properly advertised, they might make a very successful new kind of breakfast food—provided the paper on which they were written was not too indigestible.”